


Rainy Days and Mondays

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: Gen, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:39:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hutch muses on his life after surviving the harrowing days trapped under his car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainy Days and Mondays

Hutch lobbed the TV Guide at the thirteen-inch screen, smacking Mike Douglas in the forehead. Luckily the glass didn't break, but the picture flickered ominously before Mike broke into song. Scowling, Hutch wished he had a way to switch the channel from the couch, but the battered little black and white television had been new when Johnson was president. Nothing as modern as those remote controls that all the newest color sets had.

He was bored. More than bored, he was certain that afternoon TV, along with morning, and so called primetime TV, was rotting his brain cells faster than 100 proof alcohol could.

A leg cast that immobilized his limb from ankle to thigh had to be the worst convalescence he'd ever endured. After the first few days in the hospital, certainly once he'd gotten home, he'd no longer felt battered and bruised. He just couldn't do one damned thing. Couldn’t walk, couldn't go get a snack in the kitchen, and worst of all, couldn't go to the bathroom by himself. He buried his chin in the afghan, ignoring Mike's chirpy interview with hoochy-coochie Charo, who kept goosing the talk show host.

In some ways, Hutch could compare lying here on the couch to withstanding forty-eight hours under his smashed LTD. Right now he didn't have to brave the extremes of early February weather in the mountains, and had a phone at his elbow for emergencies, but he still had to wait for Starsky to rescue him from this monotony with a mixture of despair and hope.

Starsky had only been gone for a few hours, thank goodness, to buy necessary supplies and groceries. Hutch still felt peevish enough to resent his buddy's facile mobility.

Pointedly ignoring a commercial that promised to make his kitchen floor as shiny as a mirror if he used their floor wax, Hutch stared gloomily out his front window. Because he was on the second floor, all he could really see was sky --again, much like being wedged under that fucking car--and this time it was Mike Douglas chatting endlessly from a few feet away instead of Corporal Sonny McPhearson. All in all, he should be grateful for these few favors.

The sky was gloomy, threatening rain. Hutch harrumphed into the warm wool of the afghan. If he were counting up the good points of being on the couch versus under one thousand pounds of steel, and there were definite pluses to being indoors, chief amongst them was being warm and dry. At least he hadn't been rained on during his hellish ordeal.

Hutch sneaked a look at the clock, which he'd been studiously attempting to avoid up until now. Surely the clock must be wrong--the second hand was moving far more slowly than usual. Starsky had been gone since one, and it was nearly three now. How long did it take to pick up a few vegetables and bottles of vitamins?

Outside, a loud rush signaled the beginnings of the storm, rain erupting from the inky clouds in a violent burst . Within minutes the view from Hutch's window was completely obscured by sheets of water. The annoyingly perky weather lady on the noon news had predicted that one to two inches of rainfall would hit the Los Angeles basin in the next 24 hours. Hutch grunted, looking up at the spider plant hanging from the ceiling. Too bad he couldn't get up to put all the plants out on the fire escape for a nice natural watering.

He had a momentary flash of Lena Horne singing "Stormy Weather" in that throaty, sexy way of hers, and banished thoughts of sex, women, and anything else currently unobtainable, from his mind. In some weird way, Lena's sleek dark head was immediately substituted with Starsky's wild mane. Hutch shook his head, perturbed, although thoughts of Starsky were easier to explain than thoughts of Lena. After all he was waiting for his errant partner to return. "Since my man and I got together, seems like it's raining all over the world . . ."

Enough of Lena. Hutch tried concentrating on the talk show again, but Mike was now warbling another song while Charo and pint-sized actress Jodie Foster sang backup with disturbing results. He shuddered, covering his face with the afghan in hopes of a restorative nap.

Mike segued into Hollywood Squares, which Hutch abhorred, and he was about to cover his ears with a sofa cushion, perhaps putting himself out of his misery in the process, when a clattering outside in the stairwell signaled Starsky's return.

Hutch sat up, rearranging his casted leg on the couch, and ran combing fingers through his tousled hair. He might be grumpy, but there was no reason to look completely rumpled.

"Rainin' cats and dogs out there!" Starsky came bursting through the front door, smelling of wet leather, fresh air, and strawberries. The last was a surprise, since it was still months until berry season, but there was a familiar green plastic basket full of crimson fruit poking out the top of the sack from the green grocer. "And I mean that literally. Saw two Chihuahuas, a miniature poodle, and a Siamese cat drop down outta the clouds." He clumped down the stairs before Hutch had any chance to reply to the outrageous announcement, returning with numerous bags of groceries.

"Took you long enough."

"Had to find just the right foods for my buddy." Starsky draped his wet coat over the knob on the bathroom door to let it dry and lugged his load into the kitchen. Unpacking the bags, he talked continuously, poking his head out of the kitchen every once in a while to make sure he still had an audience. "Help you get well. Did you find out when we go in to get your cast revised? You'll be happier with a shorter walking cast. Man, that time I broke my leg, remember? About a year after the academy, when I was chasing down a pickpocket and tripped over a dog? Hated the damned thing. Itched like crazy. The cast, I mean, not the dog."

Hutch let the wave of chatter flow over him like a healing balm, only half listening. Better mood elevator than Mike Douglas and all nine celebrities on Hollywood Squares combined. He didn't want Starsky to know how much he cherished him, however, it might give the guy a swelled head. So, Hutch maintained the outward appearance of a disgruntled patient. "Could you come turn this off? I can't hear both you and the TV at the same time."

"Taste this." Starsky popped a ripe, succulent strawberry into Hutch's mouth when he came over to switch off the set.

Flavor exploding in his mouth, Hutch savored the unexpected treat. "How much did that cost?" He'd finished chewing the remarkable fruit and wanted more. "Hot house strawberries, Starsky?"

"But they're good, huh?" Starsky ignored the grumpy attitude. "Wait'll you taste what I'm gonna make you for dinner."

"It's only three thirty, Starsk. Kind of early for dinner."

"So it's . . .linner," he improvised. "I wonder why there's no word for that? There's brunch for breakfast and lunch, but nothing for late in the afternoon." Starsky shook his wet head, like a dog after a bath, showering Hutch with rain.

"You're dripping!" Hutch wiped fruitlessly at his soaked sleeve. "Get a towel." Starsky nodded, adding more volume to the indoor precipitation, and grabbed a towel from the nearby bathroom. "And what you're referring to would be tea."

"What?" Starsky's head emerged from the towel, his rampant curls now going every which way. Hutch had the urge to reach up and pat down his hair into a more sedate style.

"Tea's a drink."

"Tea is also a late afternoon meal. My mother used to go to tea all the time with the ladies of the Guild."

"Well, la di da." Starsky rolled his eyes with amusement. "So, I guess we've joined the upper crust, and we're gonna have tea." He frowned. "Do we haveta actually drink tea? I mean, do you have any?"

Hutch mentally roamed his cupboards. "Abby used to like Darjeeling. And there might be some herbal--chamomile, I think." His kitchen was full of the detritus of failed relationships. He always stocked up in whatever the latest girlfriend liked. Probably should go through and throw out some of the old stuff. Black strap molasses and vitamin E, for instance.

"Nah. I don't even like tea. Guess we're having linner, then." He rolled the towel into a tight twist and snapped it at Hutch's bare toes sticking out of the top of the cast. Hutch felt the tiniest of flicks and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. "Just you wait," Starsky assured. "Your stomach ain't going to know what hit it after all that health food stuff you used to fill it full of."

"Starsky, you aren't making burritos, are you?" Hutch grimaced. "My stomach is still a little . . ."

"Don't worry, this stuff is tasty, and good for you, schweetheart." Starsky hummed as he sauntered back into the kitchen, his hips rolling like a swabbie on the deck of a four-masted schooner.

Hutch scrunched down on the couch, listening to the intriguing sounds emanating from the kitchen. Eggs cracking, the sizzle and pop of bacon frying, and the whir of the blender. Starsky must have dropped something on the floor because a muffled curse broke into his humming, and the sharp smell of ammonia overpowered the aroma of bacon as he cleaned the floor. Hutch mused that the floor probably needed the wash, and smiled to himself, trying to identify the song Starsky was half singing. The name was on the tip of his tongue, but it just wouldn't come to him.

"Hey, Hutch, did you know that owls eat their prey head first, and then digest up everything but the bones?" Starsky called out. "I've been reading this book on animal habitats. Trying to get acquainted with the wild life around my new house. There's all these sounds at night." Cutlery clinked against stoneware as Starsky assembled their meal. He emerged from the kitchen carrying two laden plates and wearing a dish towel tucked into his jeans like an apron. "And the best part is afterwards, they puke up a pellet made of the skeleton of the mouse, or whatever it was that they ate."

"Starsky!" Hutch groaned. "Don't tell me this right before we eat!"

"Aren't you hungry any more?" Starsky asked, looking crestfallen. He brightened instantly,. "Oh, wait, I forgot the piece de resistance!" He dashed back into the kitchen, the ends of the dish towel flapping against his thighs.

Hutch was quite relieved to see that the plate on his lap contained a nice fluffy omelet and three pieces of bacon. Unless the eggs hid some frighteningly spicy Mexican peppers or something else exotic, it appeared that Starsky actually did know how to prepare a plain, appetizing meal. He tasted the eggs tentatively, getting only a hint of pepper and the sharp bite of real English Cheddar cheese. "Starsky, this tastes great."

"Ta da!" Starsky held aloft two frosty beer mugs. Except on closer inspection, the contents didn't look like beer in the slightest. "A real healthy drink," Starsky said proudly, taking a long swallow. He grinned over the top of his mug, upper lip frosted brown. "A chocolate malted."

"How can you possibly call this a healthy drink?"

"C'mon, drink some." Starsky encouraged him, holding the second mug out. "You know you want to." He settled on the floor beside the couch, shoveling in his eggs and bacon as if he hadn't eaten in a week.

Hutch took a tentative taste. He hadn't had a chocolate malt in . . . must be years. Maybe since high school. The thick, sweet, richness of chocolate and malt coated his tongue and he savored the flavors. Took another drink and smiled. This was wonderful, almost decadent. "All right, you win," he conceded. Starsky beamed his approval, and Hutch reached over casually to wipe the chocolate mustache off Starsky's mouth. Starsky licked the rest away, his tongue ever so briefly touching Hutch's finger before he pulled it away.

Hutch sucked the excess chocolate off his finger, and dug into the rest of his meal. "It's very good, but I still don't see how you can justify calling it a health drink. Bananas, wheat germ, and organic honey, it's not."

"What exactly are bananas and honey?" Starsky asked shrewdly.

Hutch regarded his friend in astonishment. "Are you losing it, Starsk? You know what they are."

"A fruit from some far away island, and a sweetener. Then you probably add some kinda protein powder for--uh--protein . . ."

"To build muscle," Hutch added.

"Plus milk, right?"

"Right. Some assorted vitamins, too, usually." Hutch nodded, surprised Starsky had ever paid enough attention to his early morning breakfast power drinks to know the recipe.

"So, this is made from the cocoa bean--grown in some far off place and picked by native workers, ground into a powder and shipped to the US." He mimed the gestures for picking and grinding. "Then the Nestle's syrup people added a sweetener, and I bought a bottle. I combined it with ice cream, which is made from milk, to give you calcium so your broken bones will heal up good as new, and malt powder, which gives you fiber and maybe even protein, I dunno, but my grandma used to say malt was good for everything. Made you strong. Helped fight disease, like garlic, only I wouldn't put garlic in a chocolate malt."

"Good thing," Hutch said weakly, amazed at Starsky's convincing argument.

"Then I tossed in some vitamins, from that stinky store you sent me to, and voila . . .it's a health drink. Dr. Starsky prescribes at least one a day."

Hutch started to laugh, a good belly whopper that started down near his toes and rolled up his body in a wave. "You're right, nothing could be healthier!"

"You know who knew a lot about malt?" Starsky shoved the last of his bacon into his mouth, chewing quickly.

"Beer drinkers?" Hutch took another swallow of the healthy drink and wondered if there was any more in the blender. Nothing better on a dreary rainy day.

"Nah, Margaret Sullavan. She was an actress. Y'know, Henry Fonda was married to her? Anyway, one of her other husbands brought malt powder over to the US from England, touted it as a health drink."

"And I'll bet your grandmother was a fan of Margaret Sullavan."

"Yeah, her favorite movie was 'No Sad Songs for me'." Starsky picked up fallen napkins and emptied plates, and carried them back into the kitchen. "How'd you guess?"

"Starsky, I've learned to navigate through your trivia over the years."

"Hey," Starsky smiled in satisfaction. "Listen, I gotta run in about an hour. How 'bout we get you all cleaned up and I can help you into bed early. I could set up the TV in there, unless you wanna sleep on the couch."

"Where are you going tonight?" Hutch tried not to let disappointment color his words. He'd been hoping for a cutthroat game of Monopoly or maybe Chess, followed by one of Starsky's dreadful late movies. To continue the habit they'd begun on every one of Starsky's days off since Hutch's accident.

"A date. Didn't I tell you?" He handed over Hutch's crutches, helping to pull Hutch to his feet without putting too much weight on the leg.

"With Nancy again?" Hutch asked, referring to the dingaling Starsky had dated for a few months. The girl didn't have the IQ of a kumquat, but she was funny, agreeable, and from all reports, good in bed.

"Nope, met a new girl. Terry. Remember I told you Dobey sent me to this special school to give one a those talks on how the policeman is our friend?" Starsky guided Hutch into the bathroom. The tiny room was far too small for Hutch to shower without wetting his cast, so they'd improvised a way for him to get fairly clean by having him sit on the toilet and sponge himself from the sink. While he was getting washed, Starsky got out some fresh clothes and set up the pain pills and a glass of water on the night stand.

"She's cute, kind of like a pixie. I got to talking to her after the class, and asked her out."

"You should bring her by sometime," Hutch said casually, realizing how much he missed dating, and particularly having a companion in his bed. Gillian had died, and Abby had left him. It had been a while since he'd had anything close to a real relationship.

"Hutch, it's the first date. I don't even know what she likes to eat yet." Starsky put his shoulder under Hutch's and helped him stand, balancing him while Hutch pulled on a pair of roomy sweatpants with one leg cut off to accommodate the cast.

"Then don't take her to Pepe's Burrito Shack," Hutch suggested with a smirk. He put on a matching gray sweatshirt with Los Angeles Police Academy stenciled across the back. "She might get ptomaine poisoning."

"Hey, I'm going to wear a tie. It's formal. We're going to the Chinese Pagoda," Starsky informed him loftily. He hovered until Hutch made his clumsy way into the bedroom. At barely five thirty, it was already quite dark, with the drone of rain in the background. Hutch was glad of his comfortable bed and soft pillow. His leg ached from ankle to thigh, and his back was killing him from lying on the lumpy couch all day.

"Order the Peking Duck."

"Yeah, that's good." Starsky surveyed his partner critically. "Need anything else? The TV?"

"No, I've watched enough mind numbing trash to last me until the 1980's. Maybe bring the radio in here instead?"

Starsky disappeared to go hunt up the portable, and Hutch missed him almost instantly. He was still in the house, for God's sake. What was that all about? Hutch looked wistfully at the neglected Monopoly box on the floor near the bed. He didn't want Starsky to leave, although he'd never say so.

"Where is it?" Starsky's voice floated back from the living room.

Hutch thought. "Try on top of the piano."

"Got it!" Starsky called. He brought the radio back in, placing it next to the bottle of pills. "That's it then, I'll try to tiptoe in tonight, so I don't wake you up. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Starsky, if you want to . . .spend the night with Terry," Hutch said, gesturing lewdly. "It's alright. You don't have to come back."

"No, like I tol' you, it's the first date. Trying to make a good impression here."

Hutch was impressed, and hoped the girl would be, too. Starsky must really like this Terry then, if he was going all out with a tie and a chaste kiss on the first night. With Nancy it had usually been a couple beers, a burger, and a roll in the hay. "Be in by midnight, then. You hear that, son?"

"Yes, Dad," Starsky waggled his eyebrows and waved goodbye.

Hutch spent a few minutes trying to find a comfortable position for his heavy cast, shoving a few pillows under the middle section, and scootching on his bottom to the center of the mattress so he had space to stretch out. He fiddled with the radio, searching for a station that came in clearly despite the rain. Snatches garbled of DJ speak scratched and hissed as he turned the knob.

" . . .rain will continue through Wednesday . . ."

"Next on the top ten for 1977, 'Dancing Queen' by ABBA!" Hutch grimaced and slid the indicator needle over to the next station.

"Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down . . ."

Now that was apropos. And it answered the question that had been nagging him for the last hour--it was the song Starsky had been humming in the kitchen.

"Walking around, some kind of lonely cloud . . . "

Karen Carpenter's plaintive voice played out into the quiet house, fitting Hutch's mood. He was lonely. Starsky brightened the place when he was there, and when he left, it was as if something precious had been snuffed out.

Hutch snorted. He was getting all soapy, as Starsky would say, but the loneliness was weighed down with something else, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Funny but it seems that it's the only thing to do, come and find the one who loves me . . ." Karen crooned, and the chorus echoed her.

Someone who loves me.

Hutch stared up at the dark ceiling, recognizing the emotion he didn't want to acknowledge. He was jealous. Jealous of a girl he'd never met, this pixie-like Terry. She got to spend time with Starsky while he lay in bed listening to maudlin songs.

Stupid. Asinine to resent the time Starsky spent with a girl.

"We know what it's all about . . .Talking to myself and feeling old . . ."

"You got my number, Karen," Hutch laughed, flipping to the classical music station. But even as Fugue in G Minor boomed out from the tinny speaker, he could still hear the echoes of Karen's back up singers. "Come and find the one who loves me . . ."

Why did Starsky's face keep appearing every time that line repeated?

FIN


End file.
